by David R. Wheeler

01/14/2014

I was pleased to see Alan S. Blinder's op-ed piece in today's Wall Street Journal. In the piece, Blinder makes the following observation:

It may seem strange to cast technology in the role of the villain, and in a larger sense it's not. Improving technology is the main source of higher living standards. So it is good, not bad, for a country to experience faster technological progress. But new technologies inevitably leave some people behind. ... The Internet revolution gave this process new momentum and a new twist. While e-commerce eliminated many "ordinary" jobs (think Amazon instead of bookstores, or online reservation systems instead of travel agents), it also enhanced the opportunities and rewards for some "extraordinary" jobs. Think of entertainers or inventors of successful apps, for example. The result has been that the rich got richer while the poor and middle class got relatively poorer.

Well said, Alan Blinder. Technology is great, but we're forgetting that technology should serve people — not vice versa. Instead of expanding wealth, the Internet is slowly destroying the business model of practically every middle class job, one by one. That's not the Internet's fault; it's simply how the technology and culture of the Internet developed.

This increasingly dire situation doesn't mean we should try to slow down technological progress; it means we should think about ways to help America through this difficult transition.

What's that, you say? Simply prepare people for a changing job landscape? Give them the skills to succeed in the new economy? If only it were that easy. Which "new economy" are we talking about? The technological landscape is reinventing itself every few months. There's no way to keep up. This is rapidly becoming everybody's problem.

A solution to the problem of uncontrolled middle-class-job destruction will require creativity, compromise, and cooperation. An example of this cooperative spirit: Some libertarians believe a basic guaranteed income would be cheaper and much less bureaucratic than our current welfare system. If, in the future, online learning destroys most teaching jobs, and driverless cars destroy most ground-transport jobs, and 3-d printers destroy most manufacturing jobs, we might need a guaranteed income for more than just the "poor."

That's just one idea. There are others. The point is: If the Internet, or free software, or robots, are going to take away jobs, without replacing them with other jobs, we need some solutions on hand. Let's make sure the robots work for us, not against us.

10/15/2011

09/05/2011

As the adviser to the Collegian student newspaper, I'm no longer the one pushing for change. The staff is coming to me with their ideas. It's a great feeling. Read managing editor Riah Lawry's blog post on how the staff successfully redesigned the paper from a broadsheet to a tab in just one week.

08/06/2011

I was hoping, during my month in Florence this summer, to escape (however briefly) from America and its low-brow obsessions. To look at paintings rather than watch television. To have face-to-face conversations in a piazza rather than computer-mediated conversations over Facebook.

So when I learned that the cast of Jersey Shore would be here at the same time, I laughed. I had never seen an episode of the show, but I knew that it stood in opposition to the sophisticated life of Florence--the kind of life I wanted for at least a month.

The first time I saw the cast, I continued to eat my gelato as if nothing was happening. I listened with amusement as an American teenager tried to explain the significance of the show to an elderly Italian woman. “Jersey?” the woman said. “Jersey who?” Then came the Facebook messages on my wall: “Have you seen the cast yet?” “Make sure to take pictures!” And after Snooki’s car incident: “Can’t you get the Jersey Shore kids to behave?” (From my mom.) By the end of the month, I was posting entire photo albums of my run-ins with the cast. Sophisticated life? Well, there’s always next summer.

05/19/2011

Why am I on a train in Livorno, Italy, in the first place? This summer, I’m writing for The Florentine, an English-language newspaper that caters to the expat community in Florence. My assignment is to write three to five travel articles about beaches along the Etruscan Coast. For most non-Italian travelers, these beaches are considered to be off the beaten path, and they’re certainly off the beaten path for an American like me.

Because the restaurants in Vada don’t open for dinner until around 7 p.m., I’m a little late getting back. I catch the last bus back to Livorno, 28 miles away, where I’m supposed to catch another train to Florence at 10:22 p.m. I bought my ticket earlier in the day.

I sit on the bench at Platform 2, reading my book, while the PA system says things like, “It is forbidden to cross the railway lines.” At 10:20 p.m.—two minutes early!—the train rolls to a stop at Platform 2. I punch the little button that makes the door open, as I’ve seen so many people do, and I hop on.

I take my seat. My first thought: Wow, there’s nobody else on here. Which is good. I can sprawl out, put my head against the window, and take a nice nap on the way back to Florence. No need to worry about moving my backpack for a little old lady. Yes, this is nice. It’s been a long day, and I’m tired.

My next thought: Gee, it’s dark in here. Is it usually this dark on the night train? Maybe they forgot to turn the light on in this compartment. It’s kind of eery. Cinematically eery. I think about movies like Strangers on a Train and Murder on the Orient Express. Someone really could commit a terrible crime on here and get away with it.

But the train starts to move. We’re on our way. Just me and my backpack. On a dark train.

Then the train rolls to a stop again, making that metal-against-metal noise, and goes completely silent. Why is the train completely silent? It’s as if it’s being parked for the night. Parked for the night in a railway yard.

I see. I’m on the wrong train. That’s okay. I’ll just get off. Now, if I could only get this door open …

All right, fine. If I can only get this other door open …

All right, fine. If I can just walk through the compartments to the front of the train, I'll talk to the conductor. Next compartment opens. Next one opens. Then it’s locked.

I knock. “Hello?” I'm nowhere near the front of the trian.

I knock some more.

"Hello?"

Okay, don’t panic. No need to panic. Why panic? That’s silly. What’s the worst thing that could happen? I have to spend the night on the train? Come on, worse things have happened. I just had a full meal of authentic Italian lasagne at 7 p.m. I’m not hungry. I’m not cold.

Why am I still panicking?

“Somebody help me!”

Who could I call? Let’s see. There’s the guy whose apartment I’m renting for the month: Alessio. I could call him. And tell him … tell him what? That I’m stuck on a train in Livorno? Come and get me? I’m on the train that left from Platform 2 at 10:20 instead of 10:22?

What’s the Italian number for 911?

Okay, besides the door handles, there’s another handle that I can barely see. There’s some writing that goes along with it that I can’t read. It’s above the door. Maybe that’s an emergency exit. Yeah, that’s what it is. So I pull it.

It makes an ungodly hissing sound.

Right. Yes. I wasn’t expecting that.

WHY IS IT HISSING?

“Help!”

Okay, well, first of all, whatever you did that’s making it hiss, get out of that compartment. I think we can all agree that’s the first thing that should happen. Hard to think of a plan with that hissing noise.

I go two compartments down to be safely away from the hiss. Then I see it: the window. Why didn’t I think of this before? I’ll try the window. And the window opens. God bless you, window.

“Help!”

What’s the Italian word for “help”? Wonder if it’s something close to the Spanish “ayúdame”?

“¡Ayúdame!”

I think about breaking open my English-Italian dictionary, but it’s too dark to see.

The window opens wide enough for me to put my upper body through. Success. Wait. Now don’t just throw yourself out like an idiot. It’s not like the train is on fire. Things are hissing, but nothing’s on fire. At least not in this compartment.

Hmm, it’s a longer drop than I anticipated. I’m not going to break any bones or anything, but I might need to climb out backwards and then slowly loosen my grip for a more graceful fall. But I need to lower my backpack out first.

Here we go. Going to jump out the window. Looking at a dark railway yard. I can see the back of a department store. Civilization isn’t far away. Why am I nervous? In the movies, people jump out of trains all the time. At least this train isn’t moving.

Wait. Woah, what was that? We’re moving. This train is moving. And it’s moving at a pretty good clip. No warning. No warm-up. I guess there's no need to worry about jolting the passengers when nobody’s supposed to be on board. Good thing I didn’t attempt a jump.

Now we’re back in the station.

“Help me!”

The conductor sticks his head out the window. “What are you still doing on the train?” he says. Which, in his defense, is a reasonable question.

“I thought it was going to Florence!”

I hear a sound. He’s unlocking the cabin doors. I get out. I know I’m “forbidden to cross the railway lines,” but it looks like he’s going to make an exception for me.

A train similar to the one I almost jumped out of. Photo by David Wheeler.

05/15/2011

Alex Balk at The Awl wrote a poem in response to my article in The Atlantic—and he concluded the poem with a link to my article. First of all, Alex, you're a creative genius. Second, thanks for linking to my full article—I will return the favor. The first two stanzas of Alex's poem are below, along with a link to the full poem at The Awl. The poem begins with the headline of the article, "Google doesn't laugh," which is a quote from my main source for the article, Matthew Crowley. For good measure, The Awl also created a graphic of a frowning Google logo—a nice touch.

04/19/2011

When it comes to human trafficking, the media often get it wrong, says Marissa Castellanos, who spoke to Asbury journalism students this week. Marissa is the program manager for the human trafficking task force of Catholic Charities of Louisville.

04/18/2011

When I teach a unit on movie reviews, I make sure we take a few minutes in class to read The New Yorker's scathing review of the 2000 movie Left Behind, starring Kirk Cameron.

"If the first thing that comes to mind when you hear the word 'Rapture' is Blondie, then start stocking up on food and water," writes Michael Agger. I don't expect my students to laugh at this line. Remember: Blondie's "Rapture" was released in 1981, a full decade before today's college students were born. It's as far away to them as Woodstock is to me. For everyone except the music junkies, this joke flops. Nevertheless, I take pleasure in introducing them to one of the first pop songs to incorporate a fledgling new genre called "rap."

But this year, when we read Agger's review, I noticed something new. Perhaps my favorite line in the review is Agger's description of Left Behind as "an after-school special about the apocalypse."

Silence.

Come on, guys. An after-school special about the apocalypse! Funny, right?

Then it comes. I should have expected it.

"What's an after-school special?"

Now that I think about it, I guess the laughter at the "after-school special" line has been dwindling over the past four years that I've been teaching college. And it makes sense: According to imdb.com, ABC's after-school specials ran from 1972 to 1996, with the final episode airing in January 1997. In other words, by the time today's college students were in first grade, the show was off the air. Unless they had a special taste, while still in pre-school, for such titles as "Educating Mom" (a soccer mom goes back to high school with her teenage son, air date: March 14, 1996), how would they know about after-school specials?

Nevertheless, I will keep using Agger's article when teaching movie reviews. For one thing, they need to know another synonym for "sappy television." But most importantly, they need to be exposed to lines such as this: "Read your Bible carefully. A global currency, the ascendancy of the U.N., the telling detail that the Antichrist will have a Russian accent—it’s all there."

04/11/2011

The average age of CBS Evening News viewers: 60.2—and this is the YOUNGEST audience of the three network newscasts, according to a New York Times article today discussing Katie Couric's expected departure from the CBS network.